


Living Men in This Time of Insatiable, Yet Dying Lovers

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Anthony is a lot of metaphors Ian cannot, as a writer, put into words (even though Ian is becoming so much better at metaphors when he’s with him).</em>
</p>
<p>A study of Ian Hecox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Men in This Time of Insatiable, Yet Dying Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying my hardest to be better at imagery. This is also me telling myself to write some fluff, and rebelling. The first thing you need to do is go to Youtube, search "When a Boy Tells You He Loves You" by Edwin Bodney, and watch it (mandatory). Then, the next thing to do will be to read this fic (non-mandatory). After that, go and leave a review because I live for those. This isn’t an AU, but there are things that are different. Be warned.

_When a boy tells you he loves you,  
it’ll be the first time you hear this._

Ian remembers the first time he kissed Anthony.

To be truthful (and to be more precise), Ian remembers how the kiss felt. He remembers how Anthony’s mouth tasted like wine and chocolate, how Ian’s hands had suddenly been everywhere, unstuck from the sides of his body, taking, taking, _taking_ , afraid that Anthony will push him away.

(He has always been selfish, he thinks. It’s why he took so much even though—or maybe because—he knows Anthony will pull back with disgust.)

He remembers the way his eyes opened in surprise when he felt Anthony’s tongue slide against his, taking, taking, _taking_ (or maybe it was giving, giving, _giving_?), tasting the champagne on Ian’s lips, learning all his secrets and listening to his unspoken promises through the touch of his tongue, through the touch of his arms. At that moment, Ian felt like he could _fly_ , unburdened by the constant thought—by the constant worry—that Anthony will throw away _this_ , the offer Ian has wanted to hand to him for years.

He felt free. It was a welcome feeling, a release.

Ian remembers closing his eyes once more and just relaxing more, letting his hands guide themselves, letting his mouth take what it has wanted for so long. He remembers Anthony’s hands ghosting over skin and cloth, exploring as much as he can while not removing anything.

(But he _has_ removed something. Ian thinks Anthony removed _everything_ during that kiss. At that moment, Ian felt _raw_ , like he has been stripped bare of his skin, of his _sins_.)

After a few more seconds, they pulled away, smiles on their faces. These smiles weren’t the ones they had during filming, when they were genuinely enjoying each other’s company. No, these smiles were _intimate_ , like whispered secrets or maybe like hushed oaths.

They didn’t have sex that night. There were no declarations of love. There were no tears.

There were, instead, promises to keep whatever they had _slow_ (and Ian remembers feeling a bit frustrated because haven’t they been _slow_ enough already?), and more chaste kisses than Ian knew what to do with.

No one knew about them. This wasn’t something they talked about, only something they seemed to agree upon silently.

( _Was_ it really silent, though? Ian thinks he hadn’t been given a choice, or a chance.)

After their kiss, they went back to their rooms, as if by silent agreement. Another of many, it seemed.

Their lives moved on. The world didn’t stop. Nothing paused like romantic books or movies suggested. There were no slow-motion scenes. It just felt normal. It felt right.

(Ian thought he should be worried by that. He wasn’t.)

_It is late and he isn’t even there to tell you this in person,_  
 _but instead from a car ride home from a bar in Chicago;_  
 _he is there on business._

Ian is not the most romantic guy.

He is too quick, too excitable, too _much_ , yet at the same time, he is too silent. All the others say that he’s a good guy, but that he’s just not _right_ for them.

(He hears the hushed whispers of course. He knows they hate his inability to be what they want.)

He is a writer. He finds it easier to write the things he wants to say, finds it easier to press ink and control it against paper, than to speak out loud, to let his (too loud) voice say all the words he knows he should say.

(He knows he should say them, but he doesn’t want to.)

During serious conversations, during times when communication is a must, he is a turtle hiding in his shell, lips shut tight like a treasure chest under six feet of soil, eyes cold and unassuming like ice cubes. No words will pass his lips despite the anger or sadness. Suddenly, he is too little and too much all at the same time. He is too quiet. He is too closed up. (He is too much of a burden.)

Anthony is different. When he’s with Anthony—it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

He is neither too much, nor too little. He just _is_. And he misses that. He feels enough for Anthony, and that is a feeling he doesn’t feel often. This warmth inside him feels like a caress, like a comforting touch, and he loves it.

Anthony understands him. Ian isn’t surprised to note this. Anthony is a refreshing sip of clean, clean water at a peaceful lake, is a serene walk through the woods, is a relaxing gaze at the multitude of stars brightly shining against the dark backdrop of the calm sky overhead. Anthony is a lot of metaphors Ian cannot, as a writer, put into words (even though Ian is becoming so much better at metaphors when he’s with him).

Everything feels right. Okay. Fine. Good. Correct.

(Ian loves the thesaurus.)

There are fights, of course. Ian and Anthony know each other too much to not know which buttons to press during times when every falling star is actually a falling bomb. They know how to rile each other up, how to make the right places _hurt_ , how to make the right places _bleed_. They don’t hurt each other _physically_ , they hurt each other with words and looks, with emotions they have freely given each other before like wrapped presents but now have become blackmail material, have become weapons turned against them. They don’t hurt each other physically because everyone knows the more effective way is to hurt each other verbally, _emotionally_.

The scars which are hardest to heal are often the ones that cannot be seen, after all.

Despite that, they are two puzzle pieces coming together in all the right places. Fights are broken and smoothed over. Words are finally spoken. They’re all right.

(Are they? There are some scars even band-aid cannot fix, Ian thinks.)

After fights, Ian always feels raw, like shattered glass on the pavement. Every apology makes him feel like he is gravel and glass mixing together in an attempt to piece him back whole. Sometimes the apologies are band-aids, and sometimes the apologies are more like gauze and tape.

Like needle and thread.

Like medical staplers and sterilized staples.

Like splinters.

Like braces.

Like crutches.

Like a botched up autopsy on a living person with a beating heart.

(It seems that Ian has gotten better with similes, too.)

_And of course, you will smile, because he sounds like he means it._

The reason why their relationship feels so right, Ian thinks, is because it is something that has felt like the next step for a long time. Not quite unlike walking on a set of flat rocks serving as a pathway through a lush green garden, this feels like the right thing to do.

And it _is_. Ian is no longer afraid of speaking too much or speaking too little. The desire is still there, a burning flame that is only fanned hotter with every slide of skin against skin, with every sweet release.

Friendship has always been the best kind of foundation for a relationship.

(Ian ignores the fact that foundations can still crack and crumble.)

He remembers all those years of quiet pining, of stolen looks and fantasies. Always, _always_ , he was silent, yet hoping. It is a kind of cowardice he has perfected over the years—the kind where he doesn’t speak and hopes the other will speak for him. There are no spoken words—only written ones.

(Ian wonders if that is a kind of cowardice on its own.)

There are no downsides (maybe there are, but these are either too small to be noticed or too conveniently ignored by Ian). There is laughter and there are fights, just like in their friendship. It’s a new and improved version of their interdependence, a slow orbit of two planets around one another. At this point, no one besides themselves know about their relationship yet even though it has been months, but it isn’t a problem.

Orbiting planets do collide someday.

_Because you believe him._

Ian remembers the first time Anthony told him he loved him.

It wasn’t a romantic affair in some bistro. It wasn’t even spoken to him in person. It was eight months after his first kiss with Anthony, and he heard these words through his new iPhone (a gift from Anthony—he had always been the type to give gifts like this) as Anthony drove through the streets of Los Angeles. Anthony told him these three words after he explained to him how his meeting with some of the higher-ups at Google had run late and that he’ll probably be home at a later time, after he told Ian he missed him.

Ian had never been the type to say words out loud, so he merely smiled. He felt light and his heart was beating double-time. He cleared his throat after a few seconds and told Anthony he loved him through different words, through words of concern. (He didn’t say the actual words. He didn’t know why.)

“What time will you be home?” Ian asked, closing his eyes and hoping that Anthony would read between the lines.

“I’ll probably just get a hotel room then drive tomorrow,” Anthony said, his voice apologetic. He sounded sincere. Ian didn’t doubt him. He knew that if Anthony had a choice, he would choose to be there, sitting beside Ian in their Sacramento home.

Ian nodded. He let the smile bloom on his face, like a flower unfurling, eager to show itself to the world.

Anthony had always been different, Ian knows. He had always been a category of his own, something that Ian tried not to think too much about. It was true back then, and it still is, now. Like finally getting together with Anthony, the “I love you” he heard felt right, felt like the next step in this little staircase of theirs.

(What’s the staircase for? What are they passing by below? Ian thinks there is more to this metaphor than what is evident.)

The thing is, Ian never needed romance. He isn’t the most romantic guy out there, after all. However, he does appreciate the little things Anthony does—the sweet little kisses and the smiles shared over video games they have grown up with. In private, they’re actually a bit domestic. Though Ian still hasn’t said the words to Anthony back (and he _is_ working on it, he really is), Ian would like to think that his declarations of love are evident in the little things, in the way he curls up next to Anthony every night, in the tender kiss of his flesh against Anthony’s.

This, what they have—it’s what Ian has wanted for a long time. _This_ is falling in love. He knows it. This is jumping off a cliff blindfolded, hoping that there will be a net somewhere below that will catch him. This is swimming in the middle of the Pacific until his limbs grow tired, until all he can do is float on salty water and hope that the currents will carry him home. This is a star exploding into a supernova, becoming too bright for human eyes to fathom.

(This is Ian using metaphors to describe Anthony once more.)

_Because the boy has never handed those words to you  
like crushed blackberries in the palms of his hands_

Ian knows about the others.

He knows their names and faces, knows how much of Anthony they had kept before they finally walked away. It is as if he has this scroll in his mind where every name is etched in careful script. Sometimes, Ian thinks of them as timeline markers instead of people despite it being a wrong thing to do.

(And now, now that Ian’s name is on that scroll of people Anthony loves, is he just another marker? Another placeholder in the timeline?)

He remembers Kayla when they were still in high school and he didn’t yet have feelings for Anthony. He remembers Janet, Anthony’s girlfriend in eleventh grade. While she was brunette and gorgeous, Ian was undergoing some of the more confusing parts of his life, his eyes constantly caught between wanting to look at Anthony and trying not to because a huge part of himself told him it was _wrong_.

There was Allison, during that summer after eleventh grade. She was there at a time when Ian was constantly trying to convince himself to tell his parents about this new discovery of his (but not Anthony, _no_ , never Anthony). Shortly after that, there was Catherine, who was cooler than Anthony’s past girlfriends. Her and Anthony’s relationship ended after graduation, when Ian was seriously contemplating telling Anthony, his best friend, about everything.

(He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.)

He remembers Samantha, remembers the constant ache in his chest whenever he had to watch Samantha leave Anthony’s bedroom with a smile on her face and genuine love in her eyes. By that time, Ian had begun his fast descent to hell (or maybe it was heaven? Ian doesn’t know. He isn’t very spiritual.), headfirst and concerns later.

By the time he got his bearings, he was too far gone in this chasm, in this black hole, in this abyss. Of course, as always, he was silent.

He remembers Kalel.

She was, perhaps, the most important (placeholder?) of all. She was effortless beauty and grace where Ian was effortless idiocy. She had fit Anthony like a glove. Together, they had been beautiful like a movie-star couple. Whenever Ian had been with them, Ian had always felt like their chauffeur, a bit too down here to be up there with them.

She was the most important of all because there had been a ring. Ian remembers how his throat constricted, how it had felt like a fist was squeezing the life out of him, when he saw the proposal.

(The ring is as beautiful as the bride to be, of course. Anthony has always had an eye for beauty.)

Ian knows Anthony is a person who lives for affection, for little touches, for hungry kisses, for giving as much as taking. He knows Anthony has told every single one of these girls that he loved them, and he knows that Anthony probably believed the words, too. Anthony falls too deep, too quick, after all. It’s one of the many things Ian loves about him. Anthony isn’t afraid to fall.

(He’s the bravery to Ian’s cowardice.)

_firm, young, full,  
waiting to taste sweet with you._

Anthony is the type to give all of himself now before asking questions. He’s always been dedicated like this—Ian thinks it’s mostly because of that that they’re as successful as they are now. He gives wholly. He is willing to sacrifice a lot.

It seems even Ian isn’t exempt from this.

There are few business matters that include Anthony but do not concern Ian, but one by one, they make themselves known until suddenly, Anthony is canceling plans left and right. It shouldn’t matter to Ian, but it does. (Who is he even kidding?)

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, truly apologetic. Even though they’re far from each other, Ian imagines he can see the genuine regret in Anthony’s chocolate-colored eyes. Whenever Anthony apologizes, he always looks like a puppy with ruthlessly adorable eyes, despite the man being fonder of cats than dogs.

Ian will forgive him. Of course he will. Sweet assurances will fall from his lips like waterfalls, or maybe more like lava making its way down the sides of a volcano. “It’s okay,” Ian says, sincere. He has never been the romantic type, after all. It’s okay if they miss one date. It’s only one date in the face of many more.

(Who is he even kidding?)

_His arms, creeping vines begging to touch the sun in your face saying,  
“here. Take everything I have ever touched to be closer to you.”_

It was a year into their relationship when they finally told their fans that they were together.

Ian was driving and Anthony was holding the camera, filming for Lunchtime. There was a red light, and Ian was looking at the camera, smiling, when suddenly, Anthony was _there_ , kissing him, an affair of lips and tongues. It was half and half—half-chaste and half-hungry at the same time—but it was _perfect_.

Anthony didn’t edit the kiss out (another one of those silent agreements, Ian thought), and by the time the video was posted, fans and Youtubers alike were congratulating them. At that time, Ian felt refreshed, like the heavy weight across his shoulders consisting of his worry of the fans and their friends not accepting them was finally gone.

Ian knew that Anthony cared a lot as well. Bravery aside, Anthony truly loved what they did and the people who supported them, so of course he was scared as well. This move was a short game of Russian roulette, an _all in_ at a round of high-stakes poker.

It had paid off generously. Ian had been glad. He didn’t know what they would have done if it hadn’t.

_His breath waiting to be folded into a love note passed  
in between the nape of your neck and his front teeth._

Ian remembers the first time he and Anthony had sex (made love) with startling clarity.

It had been in Anthony’s bed, the both of them too caught up in the whirlwind of sensations and emotions to think about anything else but the constant slide of tongues, the constant touching of skin. Their kisses were heady and intoxicating, the two of them addicted to this pleasurable concoction of thunderbolt and lightning, of electricity and liquid fire. Hands roamed everywhere, touching, touching, _touching_ , exploring the intimate curves and edges of the other’s body.

(Ian remembers Anthony’s tender caresses on his skin. He imagines he can still feel his fingers pressing in, in, _in_ , until Anthony is inside him and seeing everything through his blue gaze.)

Anthony’s lips were soft, yet demanding as they skated across the span of Ian’s body, kissing, nipping, sucking, marking pathways like a set of railroad tracks. Ian remembers pulling Anthony back up and kissing him deeply, sweetly, _desperately_ , before slowly turning with Anthony so that Ian landed on top.

It hadn’t been something they’ve done after a date, or something they did because it was their anniversary or someone’s birthday. It hadn’t been a special occasion. (But it _was_ a special occasion. It _was._ )

Because neither of them had experience, it had been weeks before they were finally prepared enough. It wasn’t something they had rushed because neither of them wanted it to be something they would regret.

Ian had let his hands roam further down, clever fingers making quick work of Anthony’s button and zipper. He remembers looking down into Anthony’s eyes and finding his pupils dilated, heat and arousal visible in the thin rim of dark brown, in the shared breaths, in the way Anthony’s hand was splayed, possessive, on Ian’s back. Caught in an endless loop of _need_ , Ian let his lips find their way down the side of Anthony’s face, until they were at that perfect curve, at that junction between Anthony’s neck and shoulder.

He had never been the type to mark and brand and _claim_ , but there he was, licking at Anthony’s skin, tasting the salty sweat pooled there, sucking, sucking, sucking, until Ian is satisfied and pulls away, his ears ringing with the choked moans Anthony had let slip out of his mouth.

Ian’s hands had wedged themselves inside Anthony’s pants, and while the angle had been awkward and while his wrist had started to hurt, he hadn’t moved it from the tight heat, hadn’t pulled away.

“Take it off, take it off,” Anthony had blabbered, his eyes closed and his hands on Ian’s head, fingers snaking through his hair.

Ian had smiled, the hand in Anthony’s pants twisting just _so_ , enjoying the constant stream of profanities escaping Anthony’s mouth. “We should probably remove your shirt first, hm?” Ian had asked, his voice soft, his lips shaping the words against the shell of Anthony’s ear. He had felt Anthony shiver in his arms, goosebumps appearing on his skin.

Another groan had been ripped from Anthony’s throat. “You’re—” he had struggled to say as Ian smiled, letting his hand surround the heat completely, feeling the damp spot on Anthony’s underwear, “—too co- _ah_ -herent, _oh fuck,_ _more.”_

Ian’s lips had found their way back to Anthony’s once more and he kissed him hard, letting all the unspoken promises find their way to Anthony through intimate caresses of their tongues. After a few seconds, they had pulled away for air. “Make me incoherent, then,” Ian had challenged, a little smile playing on his lips.

Anthony’s eyes had opened, exposing Ian to that lustful gaze of his, to the fire smoldering in those dilated pupils. Suddenly, Ian had found himself on his back, Anthony sitting on his lap as he swiftly removed his shirt. (He had that gray shirt on that Ian thought made him look sexy so much, Ian remembers.) Anthony had then reached for Ian’s hands, slowly bringing them up until one of his hands could pin Ian’s wrists down above his head, his other hand rucking Ian’s shirt up slowly, taking the time to caress Ian’s skin as it travelled upwards.

Despite the nipple jokes they constantly have on their videos, it’s actually Ian who has the sensitive nipples, and it was during that time, when Anthony was slowly letting his hand explore Ian’s skin, when he discovered this.

“Ah!” Ian had moaned, surprised at the sudden jolt of electricity making its way through his veins. He had opened his eyes and had seen Anthony’s mouth twist up in a smile mere seconds before his thumb made its way across Ian’s right nipple, his trimmed nail catching on the edge.

Immediately, Ian’s eyes had closed, his neck falling slack, dropping to the pillow. “ _Oh_ God, Anth- _oh_ -ny, more,” he had groaned, his voice rough like gravel.

Anthony had flicked Ian’s left nipple, then the right, doing so in turns until Ian was lost in a haze of pleasure, moans constantly making their way out of his mouth between pants for air. “So you’re sensitive, huh?” Anthony had said, and Ian had heard the teasing lilt of his voice, the breathlessness.

“Ugh,” Ian had struggled to say. Anthony had begun to circle his nipples with teasing fingers while his other hand was still tight around Ian’s wrists, stopping Ian from teasing (and torturing) Anthony back. His mouth had found Ian’s, and their tongues slid against one another’s, tasting, tasting, _tasting_. Sweat had made Ian’s shirt stick to his skin more, but he did not pay this any mind, too busy being lost in the mix of intoxicating lust present in the pleasurable kisses, in the sensual touches.

_Finally_ , Anthony had released Ian’s hands, his hand making its way downward to remove Ian’s shirt. Ian’s hands had found Anthony’s hips and clutched Anthony to himself, making their cocks rub against each other briefly through layers of cloth.

Anthony’s voice had been rough when he had said, “Ah, oh fuck,” before his lips found Ian’s nipples and sucked _hard_. Ian had cried out, a hoarse, “Ah!” leaving his mouth quickly before turning into a drawn out moan as he felt Anthony’s tongue flick the nub.

Ian’s hands had finally had enough and had started to push Anthony’s jeans down, along with his briefs. “Come on,” he had said breathlessly, impatient.

Anthony had pulled back from the nub and had blown air over it, a smile curling his lips as he watched it harden even more. His lips had made their slow descent down Ian’s body, pressing kisses here and there, licking and biting lightly, while his hands stroked the sides of Ian’s body, his fingers sliding on sweat-slicked skin.

After a few more pleas and a few more minutes, both of them were finally naked, just bare skin against bare skin as they teased and touched.

Ian remembers this moment most clearly of all: when he had finally deemed Anthony prepped enough, with lube coating his insides and coating Ian’s condom-clad cock, when he had finally sunk slowly into that intense heat. Trying not to let too-loud moans escape his mouth, Ian had bitten his lip and let his hands touching Anthony everywhere distract him.

He remembers thrusting in when Anthony finally told him it was okay to do so. He remembers kisses and touches and racing for that blinding white light, for that release. He remembers kissing Anthony deeply, his hand behind Anthony’s head, supporting him.

He remembers Anthony finally reaching the height of pleasure, remembers watching his eyes fall closed as he groaned out his release.

He remembers his orgasm ripping through him at the speed of light, remembers the stars bursting behind his eyelids as wave after wave of pleasure lapped up at his insides, as supernovas outshone galaxies in that brief moment.

He remembers Anthony saying, “I love you,” as Ian lies down beside him.

(He remembers not saying it back.)

_He will remember the time you told him how you felt safe in his mouth_  
 _and he will never grow hungry,_  
 _just distant._

Sometimes, Ian wonders if Anthony is bothered by Ian not saying the words back (sometimes, _sometimes_ turns into _always_ , and it’s no longer a matter of three words, but a matter of whether or not Ian is enough for Anthony). Sometimes, he wonders if he’s truly something spectacular, if he’s _different_ to Anthony the way Anthony is to him.

(He wonders if he’s _different_ enough to be the end of Anthony’s lineup of romantic partners.)

There are times when Ian thinks he can finally say those words out loud, can finally stop writing them and hiding them. These times sneak up on him like thieves in the night, stealing his breath when he realizes that he has fallen in love with this wonderful, _wonderful_ man and, inconveniently, stealing the words from his mouth before he has a chance to say them out loud.

(He knows Anthony is quite possibly the love of his life. He wonders if Anthony feels the same way about him.)

The most frustrating thing is that there are no specific moments. Ian cannot try to predict when his heart will balloon with so much amount of caring for Anthony, cannot try to predict when the butterflies in his stomach will take flight once more. It’s during the most random moments when Ian finds the words in his throat clamoring for freedom. It’s when Anthony’s eyes are bleary-eyed with sleep during late-night edits and it’s when Anthony’s kissing him in the mornings despite the morning breath.

It’s Anthony during their video shoots, and it’s Anthony singing pop songs at the top of his lungs as he drives down the freeway. It’s during breathless kisses and it’s during passionate sessions of making love when the emotion fills Ian completely like water filling a bucket.

(It’s Anthony, Anthony, _Anthony_. It’s him, no matter the time or place. Ian knows this.)

He loves him. He knows this.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t say it.

_When a boy tells you he loves you,  
you will hear music;_

Anthony is romantic in all the ways Ian is not.

He’s not afraid to tell Ian he loves him in the way Ian is. In fact, it’s like he takes all the opportunities to tell Ian these three words, constantly saying them in different tones—sweetly, hushed, groaned out, moaned. Ian collects all of these in his memories like breadcrumbs taken on the way home, like smoothed out pebbles collected from the shore. He cherishes them, silently grateful that Anthony understands Ian enough not to ask him to tell him the words back.

During the mornings, when Ian is slowly opening his eyes, he does so as Anthony tells him, “good morning. I love you.” It’s the same for before they fall asleep, when they’re in each other’s arms.

(It’s the same for when Anthony mutters in his sleep, but Anthony doesn’t know this.)

He says “I love you” like a connoisseur drinks wine—he savors it in his mouth. And Ian—

—Ian drinks it all like an alcoholic, drunk on the wave of emotions, drunk of the feeling of finally being _wanted_ (of finally being enough).

He loves Anthony.

(Why won’t he say it out loud?)

_the voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat,  
your stomach in after-hours cabarets still waiting on the last call._

Ian remembers his own past lovers. More specifically, though, he remembers sweet moments with them turned to sour, remembers the exact moment when everything took a turn for the worse.

There was Hannah in ninth grade. She loved running like he did, loved spending hours debating with Ian on the silliest things such as whether it would be cooler to have an ejector seat on the toilet or on the piano seat. She had gray eyes and a constant smile playing around her lips. She had been patient with Ian, had been patient with his over-activeness and with his silence, had been patient when she had told him that she loved him and Ian didn’t reply.

Patience has its limits, of course, and eventually, even Hannah—caring, _patient_ Hannah—had to smile sadly at him and tell him that he just wasn’t right for her. (Ian had heard the unspoken “you’re not enough”, of course.)

After that, he had stayed away from dating for a while. It hadn’t been a hardship—there was hardly a line of girls outside waiting to be his girlfriend, after all.

It had been during that break from relationships when he had started noticing Anthony.

All of a sudden, his eyes were constantly on his best friend like metal on a magnet. Details that hadn’t seemed so important were suddenly focused upon—the way Anthony’s eyes crinkled whenever he smiled, the way Anthony closed his eyes and clutched at his stomach when he laughed, surprised. He noticed the way Anthony was careful around his camera and computer, the way Anthony—overeager, overactive _Anthony_ —was gentle with his family, with his friends (with his lovers).

Ian had panicked.

During eleventh grade, when Anthony was dating Janet, Ian dated Marie.

It had been an awful move on his part. Guilt had been a constant companion during those days when he had to kiss Marie back because it was the right thing to do (not because he wanted to). He had known he was only dating Marie to keep himself from thinking about Anthony and Janet too much, and that, that eventually pushed him to end the relationship.

It hadn’t felt right, after all.

(Looking at Anthony that way hadn’t felt right, yet at the same time, _had_.)

The summer after Marie found Ian alone and constantly debating with himself. His parents had always been more of the open-minded ones, but Ian still hadn’t told them for a while, too submerged in the cons to notice the pros.

(Had it been Ian’s cowardice? Looking back, he thinks it had been that.)

Too caught up in his own problems (too caught up in _Anthony_ ), Ian hadn’t had the time to date. Instead of dating, he had taken a deep breath of fresh air, only to choke on smoke whenever he saw Anthony with his girlfriend.

It had been painful, to say the least. Ian had to make sure a smile was constantly on his face so Anthony wouldn’t notice anything was wrong. (Like a mask, he thinks.) It had been _exhausting_ , hiding something as important as _this_ from the one person he told everything to, which was why come Graduation, Ian had been back to asking questions he could not answer.

Was he supposed to tell Anthony? Wasn’t he? There were too many questions and not enough answers. Whenever there _were_ answers, they only led to more frustrating questions. It had been a circular issue.

(He didn’t tell Anthony.)

His mom and dad had understood, and finally, Ian learned how to breathe again. He was no longer burdened with the constant worry that he would be pushed away (that he wouldn’t be enough for his own parents).

And then, _Melanie_.

He had loved her. She had been a whirlwind of excitement and joy at whatever the world had to offer. She had been a new kind of sweetness in his world of bitterness, had been color in his grayscale.

He hadn’t told her that, though. He hadn’t because he knew, _he just knew_ , that she was a star and Anthony was a galaxy. She could have been, but she wasn’t _quite_. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t come close, no, because she had almost been right.

(And isn’t that just a hateful word? “Almost”? He had _almost_ fallen in love with her the way he had fallen in love with Anthony. He had _almost_ made it. He had _almost_ been enough. _She_ had _almost_ been enough.)

He had given her a locket. It had been his way of telling her those three words. She had ( _almost_ ) understood the gravity of it, had appreciated it for its worth. But no, those words hadn’t come out. Eventually, their fire burned out into (gray) ashes. She hadn’t been Anthony. She would never be Anthony.

He had to accept that. He had to understand fully that there was no running away this time—that there were just some things that were meant to be faced head on.

So he had.

(And it was glorious.)

_That was when you learned that when a boy says, “I love you”,  
he means “I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now.”_

“I love you, you know,” Anthony says, and Ian smiles, closing his eyes. He is comfortable in this seat, just feeling the minute vibrations of the car as it speeds down the freeway. There is, thankfully, no traffic in Los Angeles this time of the day.

“I know,” Ian murmurs, too tired to speak louder. He knows Anthony would hear it.

(“I love you too,” he doesn’t say.)

_This boy will tell you that he loves you_  
 _not long after he had you waiting for two hours_  
 _in front of a cocktail lounge._

It’s Vidcon.

Ian is in their hotel room, lounging on their soft bed with its white, white sheets, humming under his breath in confusion. Where is Anthony? He’s been here for the longest time, too tired to even go outside and get some dinner.

Sighing, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, quick fingers typing out the text message.

_Where are you?_

Ian doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_I’m here at the lobby. Saw Kalel. Agreed to go get coffee._

Ian blinks. What else is he supposed to do, demand Anthony to go back to their hotel room? He isn’t that guy. (He ignores that small voice at the back of his head saying that sometimes, he wishes he _is_.)

So he stays quiet. (He always does.)

Ian has always been conscious about his appearance. He knows what people say behind his back. (Too short, too fat, too much, not enough, not enough, _not enough_ —)

He knows Anthony is a star. Anthony is a lot of wonderful things and Ian just _isn’t_. Anthony is talented and beautiful and too _everything_ for Ian and how can he even hope to catch up to something as beautiful as a falling star?

(He’s not a falling star. Falling stars are asteroids— _rocks_. Anthony isn’t a rock.)

Ian bites his lips and closes his eyes. He will not cry. He will not show emotion. This is _okay_. He can’t possibly hope to control every aspect of Anthony’s life. Anthony has the right to see his friends. Anthony has the right to see Kalel.

Kalel who is another star, another heavenly body Ian cannot ever hope to reach. She is grace and effortless beauty where Ian is too much (not enough).

Jealousy is a cunning thief. It worms its way under your skin, through your veins, until every nerve _screams_ , until every pore _hurts_. It steals your breath as it leeches the happiness out of you, creating this massive void, this area where everything is just _numb_. It begs to be given a way out, to be expressed in any way, and Ian—

—Ian won’t. There will be no words. Why would there be?

(“ _Cowardice_ ,” the voice in his mind screams.)

_Patience is something you were working on, but no, not for him._

“Why don’t you talk about things that bother you?” Melanie had asked, before, when there had been color in this grayscale world of his.

“You know,” Ian had replied, shrugging.

(She hadn’t known. She still doesn’t. How will Ian ever explain to her that he knows his words are only as good as the laughs they have to produce?)

_When he asked you to tell him that you love him back, you will be in the car._

Ian wants to ask how Anthony’s meet-up with Kalel went. He wants to ask how Kalel has been lately (does she still have feelings for you?), what Kalel’s been doing (is she still what you’re looking for?), if he had fun with her (is she still the kind of perfect I cannot be?).

There are a lot of questions plaguing his mind. His eyes are closed, but his ears are hyper-aware of the creak of the bedroom door, of the quiet footsteps. By the sounds of it, Anthony is getting ready for bed, heading to the en suite bathroom. Ian hears the swish of water, the clicking sound of the toothbrush cap Anthony is removing.

Ian is aware that he’s being needy. That if he voices these out, he’ll sound like a clingy boyfriend, someone who’s too attached to let his boyfriend hang out with his friends.

He doesn’t ask these questions. Instead, he waits for Anthony to slide under the covers, waits for the shock of Anthony’s cold feet against his warm ones, then finally, _finally_ tries to sleep.

Before he falls under, he feels Anthony’s soft lips press against his forehead, hears the unspoken words.

He smiles. He has nothing to be afraid of. This is Anthony, and Anthony is different.

He sleeps easy.

_In the parking lot of a late-night diner,_  
 _you will watch the words fall into your lap_  
 _like a spilled glass of white wine._

Ian remembers the day after their Lunchtime video had come out.

He remembers the fans being ecstatic, remembers going online on the Smosh Tumblr account and seeing fan fiction after fan fiction being posted with the “ianthony” tag. (“They’re so perfect for each other”, he remembers seeing.) He remembers going into bed that night, smiling as he saw Anthony already on his side of the bed, a smile on his face as he looks at his phone. He remembers peeking at Anthony’s phone screen and seeing hundreds of thousands congratulatory tweets from both fans and Youtubers alike.

He remembers going to the offices the next day and getting hugged by Mari tightly. He remembers Joven muttering, “finally,” remembers seeing the Smosh Games crew silently handing each other money.

He remembers Anthony smiling, relieved.

(He remembers Anthony not actually telling him he’s not straight.)

_You remember the day your courier pigeon heart got lost in the wind_  
 _because that was a message it did not know how or where to carry,_  
 _and one by one the boys have fallen as silently as the birds do._

Ian knows that Anthony has his limits.

“I love you,” Anthony tells him in bed, as he kisses Ian’s lips over, and over, and over, as if hoping to make the words permanent like monuments, like altars.

(They will all crumble, Ian knows.)

Ian smiles, closes his eyes, and yells in his mind, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He wonders: when will Anthony break?

(Is Ian just another placeholder in this timeline of his?)

_So eloquently they used to speak until I ask the questions_  
 _that broke them into ghosts,_  
 _that bled me into a corpse with so many questions of my own for the soil,_

It is so very easy to hide. It is laughably easy for Ian to just close up and not talk, to become something else through the absence of words in the way people often think they see things in the absence of light.

He doesn’t talk because, _well_. Life has taught him that before. People leave when words are spoken. And Ian—Ian is _too much_ to handle. People have left him before because he had been too _everything_.

(Maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t speak at all, Anthony won’t notice that anything is wrong, won’t realize that he can do so much better than Ian.)

What could Ian possibly offer him? He, with the hands made of cotton and silk, with the eyes the color of chocolate and whisky, with the tongue made of fire, with the heart made of galaxies Ian cannot begin to comprehend, deserve far more (far better) than someone like Ian, who is made of gravel and glass and words that are always inked and never breathed into life.

And then, he thinks: are the words enough? Will they be worthy enough of this man, this man who he has loved for so long and he has known for longer?

Anthony deserves more than that, Ian thinks. He deserves more than words that can be taken away.

_but their tongues do not know simple,_

“Where are you?” Ian asks, worry evident in the tone of his voice. It isn’t like Anthony—the romantic one in their relationship—to miss dates. “Are you okay?”

Ian is seated at a small table for two in the middle of a too-fancy restaurant in uptown Los Angeles. The tablecloth is pristine, the placement of the dishes exact. Around him, couples and businessmen are seated around tables, their voices filling the large hall with its crystal chandeliers and its polished floors.

The seat across him is empty.

To be honest, Ian would have just as been fine with just eating at Taco Bell or something, but Anthony had wanted their date to be nice, had wanted it complete with fancy restaurants and even fancier meals that are too expensive and too small for their appetites. Ian had agreed because, well, when has he ever been able to say no to Anthony?

“I am,” Anthony replies, his voice hushed. “Kalel isn’t, though. I’m here at the hospital—her car got hit. Her family’s been informed and they’re going to fly from Missouri, but until then—”

Ian blinks. He looks at his wine glass full of red, the only color in this too-white table. He is surprised to feel something wet go down his cheek, trailing its way. Ian smiles bitterly and wipes it away with one hand. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice steady, “I understand.”

He does. Understand, that is. He thinks he understands more than what he should.

Anthony sounds worried (and _oh_ , Ian ignores the voice in his mind asking him if it’s Kalel Anthony’s worried about or him). “Are you sure?”

Ian breathes in, looks at the tables full around him, the couples making light conversation over beautiful-looking meals. “I am,” he finally says, because why would he ask for attention now, when Kalel needs it more than ever? He feels selfish for thinking this way, for making this all about him when it isn’t, it _isn’t_. “How is she?”

“She’s pretty stable now, actually. I just, I think it will be better if I stay here for a while, you know. The doctors say she should be fine, but I don’t feel right leaving her alone,” Anthony says, and it’s heartbreaking, how Ian can hear the concern in his voice.

“Will you be okay? Do you need me there?” Ian asks, his fingers starting to play with the white cloth. He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be.

“I’ll be okay,” Anthony says. A few seconds pass, then, “I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head even though he knows Anthony can’t see him. “It’s okay,” he says. “There will be other dates, you know,” he tries to joke.

“Still. I mean, we’ve planned this.”

Ian sighs. “Stay there. Take care of yourself. I’ll be fine.”

Anthony has always been this caring, Ian has to remind himself. It isn’t that Anthony sounds like he’s purposefully making this harder for him.

“Okay.” Ian hears Anthony breathe in deep across the line. “You know I love you, right?”

Ian smiles sadly, bows his head and looks at the glass of red wine on the white table. “I know,” he says before he hangs up.

(“Why does it sound like a reminder?” Ian doesn’t ask.)

He looks at the couples all around him with their smiles and their soft conversation before drinking the rest of his wine in one go.

(It reminds him of how Anthony tasted the first time they kissed.)

He breathes in deep, swallows through the lump in his throat, and puts on his confidence like a robe (like an _armor_ ) before looking up, making eye contact with a waiter and asking for the check.

It’s okay, he keeps telling himself as he hands his credit card. He’ll just go to a drive through and order something. He’ll eat at home.

Ian feels a buzzing in his pocket and he takes out his phone, looking at the text Anthony just sent.

_Happy Anniversary! :) I love you._

Ian sighs and pockets the phone.

He doesn’t reply back.

He’ll be fine.

_the things I should be hearing,  
the things that will make us living men in this time of insatiable, yet dying lovers._

Those three words aren’t enough for someone like Anthony.

Ian isn’t a romantic. He finds it _so_ hard to express himself, finds it so hard to tell Anthony words he, as a writer, should be able to provide. Despite all these, however, he knows he loves Anthony. He knows he cares for Anthony—has known it way before he has even kissed him that night, has known it since he was young and foolish, when he thought he had everything under control. He knows that Anthony is just _different_ , and it kills him that all he can say is that Anthony is different when he knows there are better words out there to describe _this_ , what he feels for this amazing man, that he just can’t reach no matter how hard he tries. How will he even begin to try to explain this? How does one put into words emotions one has never thought one was capable of feeling?

Sometimes, it scares Ian how much he cares for Anthony. It’s a black hole inside of him, threatening to wreck everything in its path and swallow these things whole. It scares him how he cares so damn much, how these things don’t have an off switch he could just flick whenever everything feels like they’re collapsing.

(But oh, why would he want darkness after he’s seen the light?)

Because words aren’t enough and because he doesn’t think he’s found the right ones yet, he starts trying to express his love for Anthony in many other ways. In the way he kisses Anthony’s right shoulder with its infinite constellations of freckles whenever they’re together, in the way he kisses him in the morning, bad breath and all. It’s in the way he’s trying to eat healthier around Anthony, in the way he sits beside Anthony during late night editing sessions. It’s in the way he tries to make Anthony laugh during his darker days, in the way he plays with Pip even though he’s allergic.

It’s in the way he tests the feel of those words in his mouth silently, in the way he presses them into Anthony’s skin when they’re making love, letting his lips drag across flesh as he tastes the words in his mouth.

He hopes Anthony understands.

_When a boy tells you he loves you_  
 _only to become silent like a folded sheet of tissue paper,_  
 _not wanting you to decrease him into the truth,_

“Hey, Ian.”

Ian looks up from the computer, a smile on his face as Anthony comes closer and kisses him on the forehead. “Hmm?” he asks wordlessly.

Anthony’s face is apologetic, his eyebrows creased, his eyes soft. “You should go eat dinner. I’m going out.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t like where this is going, doesn’t like the way his heart starts beating faster as it falls. “Where are you going?”

Anthony shrugs. “The hospital. Kalel’s been doing fine lately, but someone needs to be there, you know? I told her parents that I’ll stay tonight. They need to get some rest.”

Ian nods slowly. Anthony has always been the caring type, he reminds himself. He shouldn’t be selfish. He shouldn’t be needy. “Do you need me there?”

“I’ll be fine,” Anthony says, a smile on his face, and Ian bites his lip.

“Okay,” he replies, because what else is he supposed to say?

Anthony leaves shortly after, and Ian is left there, seated on his chair, wondering if things would have been different if he and Anthony didn’t move to L.A. and had instead stayed at Sacramento like when their relationship was still new (when he was still enough).

(He remembers when they moved, though. He remembers grinning stupidly at Anthony, remembers watching him do the same, when they’ve managed to get the last piece of furniture to its right place. He remembers their first days in this apartment that they’ve turned into a home, remembers having sex with Anthony in every room during the first few weeks, _“christening”_ these rooms more than once. He remembers Anthony telling him he loves him.)

Ian thinks it’s time to face the truth. He _knows_ what’s happening. It’s just that he’s not allowing himself to acknowledge it. ( _“Coward_ ,” the voice in his mind taunts. “Coward, coward, coward.”)

_do not crack your face into the fullest crescent moon  
at the tapered bottom of a blackened sky._

It’s daytime and Ian is at the studio when it happens.

Something cracks and suddenly, Ian is on the ground, stars swimming before his eyes as he tries to adjust to the darkness slowly surrounding his peripheral vision. The crew rushes to him, asking him if he’s okay, if anything hurts, and all Ian can think about is where Anthony is.

He realizes, as Ryan slowly gets him to sit up for them to be able to inspect his head, that Anthony has never told him why he and Kalel had broken up. There had been no explanations. Instead, there had been Anthony kissing him back during a kiss that Ian had initiated. There had been Anthony telling him he loved him on the phone, like an offhand remark. There had been Anthony who had kissed him in front of the camera and there had been Anthony who had let the Lunchtime video explain everything. There had been Anthony who had lately been missing dates left and right—dates he himself had arranged and planned for. There had been Anthony who had had coffee with Kalel and had never told Ian details about it the next morning—Ian, his best friend and lover, who he loves and tells everything to. There had been Anthony rushing to Kalel’s side.

“Where’s Anthony?” Ian asks, blinking.

Ryan looks around, as if looking for someone else who will be able to answer Ian’s question, before finally shrugging and saying, apologetically, “he’s gone to the hospital. He says he won’t be long. It’s just that Kalel’s been discharged.”

Ian breathes in deep, the black edges around his vision finally fading away.

And now, there is Anthony, again at Kalel’s side.

All this time, he thought that those three words were constantly said because of Anthony’s affectionate nature. He has blinded himself to the truth. Ian knows now: they had been reminders for himself.

Maybe the reason why Anthony hadn’t told him how he and Kalel broke up is because they aren’t exactly _broken_.

He feels sick to his stomach, feels bile rise in his throat, and he knows that these aren’t because of his head injury.

He closes his eyes against the pain and ignores the panicked tones of the crew around him.

(Hadn’t he been enough?)

_He never meant a single word of any of it._

He should have known it wouldn’t be easy. He has been too attached, after all. How can he even hope to break this off cleanly, like a scalpel neatly separating skin?

This isn’t a scalpel. This is glass shattering into a million tiny pieces. This is tiny bullet fragments located all around the room, this is porcelain breaking on the floor, this is wood splintering, this is foundations crumbling.

(This is Ian saying everything in metaphor in the hopes that they wouldn’t hurt as much.)

It’s evening, and Ian is seated in the passenger’s seat in the car, Anthony seated beside him. They’re in the parking lot beneath their apartment building, and Ian looks outside the closed window, looks at the random people walking from their cars to the elevator.

It’s raining outside. Ian can hear the drops of rain from here, from this silent void of theirs. Everything is too loud—his breath feels too loud and every few seconds, he can pretend like he can hear his heart breaking.

He has wanted Anthony for so long, and for a time, he had him. Shouldn’t he be at least happy that he got a chance?

(How does one go back to poverty after having had a taste of luxury?)

Anthony exhales, and then he speaks quickly, like a dam broken with all the water just rushing out. “You’re breaking up with me? What did I do wrong?”

Ian leans against the cold glass, closes his eyes, and bites his lip. The thing is, Anthony didn’t even do anything wrong. It’s not his fault that he’s still in love with another person. (It’s not his fault that Ian, after all these years, still hasn’t learned that he isn’t, and will never be, enough.)

How does he put these things into words? He’s a fucking writer and he just _can’t_.

Ian clears his throat. “I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

Anthony makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. “You just said that in different words. What I’m asking is _why_ ,” he growls.

The thing about them is that they know each other too well to not be capable of tearing each other down. Blood rushes through their veins with the need to destroy each other the way the other has destroyed them, and it’s difficult to ignore the siren call, the voice screaming for them to wreck each other, because they both know that it’s _so_ _very easy_ to tear each other apart.

And Ian—he’s not up for that. Not tonight. He doesn’t want a screaming match. He wants to rip this band-aid off quick and easy.

Ian doesn’t reply, and for a few seconds, their breaths are the only things that could be heard in the car.

Finally, Anthony speaks. His voice is soft, apologetic, and the words almost sound like a confession, like vows that haven’t seen the light of day. “I love you,” he says.

Ian breathes in deeply. His heart is beating even faster in his chest and he _loathes_ how he cannot control it, how there is still hope inside him despite his desperate attempts to tamp it down.

“Don’t,” Ian says tightly, his eyes still closed. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Anthony is confused, Ian can tell. It frustrates him that now, when the words finally leave his mouth, that now, when he’s finally talking, he’s still not making everything clear enough to avoid confusion. He’s supposed to be a fucking writer, isn’t he? Why is this so goddamned hard?

“What do you mean?” Anthony finally asks.

Ian bites his lip even harder. He breathes in, opens his eyes, and faces Anthony. He knows there are tears in his eyes. He knows that he looks vulnerable in a way he has never been. He is no longer closed off and he no longer has ice cubes for eyes.

He sees the surprise in Anthony’s chocolate orbs. “Answer me truthfully, please,” Ian says, his voice soft, _pleading_. Here Anthony is again with his effortless power to make Ian feel _raw_ , make Ian feel like he is nothing more than skin and bones.

Ian watches Anthony nod once, before finally exhaling. “Are you still in love with Kalel?”

Anthony freezes in his seat, and Ian knows that that answer is enough.

Ian smiles sadly, biting his lip. He nods to himself. It’s nothing he hasn’t suspected before, so why does it hurt so fucking much?

He wipes away the tears streaming down his cheeks with shaking hands. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Ian, I love you,” he says, and Ian hears the rain come down even stronger outside.

This is a typhoon leaving everything wrecked in its wake.

God, why does Anthony have to make everything hurt more?

“But you love her more,” Ian says, and it isn’t a question. She has always been perfect for Anthony. She has always been better for him. Ian cannot hope to compare.

(Ian remembers fans and Youtubers alike saying they would be perfect for each other, and laughs sadly, hopelessly. Is this what perfection feels like?)

Anthony doesn’t respond. Ian thinks it’s better this way.

“It’s been good while it lasted,” he finally says, because now that the words are leaving his mouth, he doesn’t think he can stop. He has always been silent, has always been unwilling to let words like these come out of his mouth, but now’s not the time to be quiet. Now’s the time to bleed.

There are things he won’t ever tell Anthony, though. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because even now that the words are a flashflood of emotions leaving him, the right words to explain how he felt for Anthony since the very beginning still eludes him.

(He remembers telling himself that Anthony is different. He wonders if that had been his reminder for himself the way “I love you” had been Anthony’s.)

Ian stops looking at Anthony’s face and starts looking at his eyes. He sees regret there, and apologies, and worst of all, _love_.

“I love you,” Ian whispers, and he watches Anthony’s eyes widen even more, watches all his defenses come crumbling down. He has known these words for years, but hasn’t spoken them out loud, waiting for the right moment.

This is a right moment, isn’t it?

This has been different. He hadn’t been lying to himself. This relationship has opened his eyes to so much. Anthony has been the sweetest lover, has been the perfection Ian never knew he had been looking for, and this relationship has been the sweetest and headiest thing Ian has ever experienced.

Even the sweetest things have to rot sometime.

Ian looks out the window, not having the strength to keep eye contact anymore. He’s weak, and he’s a coward, and he’s not enough. He admits that now.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do after this. He doesn’t know how they’ll be able to handle this, this _earthquake_ that has crumbled their foundation.

He does know something, though. He knows he still loves Anthony. He knows he will give anything to see him happy, even if it’s not with him.

Ian looks at Anthony and tries his hardest to smile in the most genuine way he is capable of. (He thinks he fails, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He’s allowed to crumble, himself.) “I hope you guys make it this time.”

He nods to himself for a few moments before finally getting out of the car, walking towards their apartment. He’ll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight, then he’ll start figuring out what to do tomorrow. He’ll be able to do this.

He’ll be fine.

He has to be.

_He is just a boy, remember?  
He is just another silly, sad boy, remember?_

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Smosh. I do not make money from this. I also don’t own “When a Boy Tells You He Loves You”, the poem that is both in the story and from which the title comes from—the genius behind the brilliant poem is Edwin Bodney.


End file.
